The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) by Nathan Goodwin (types of ebook readers TXT) 📕

‘Guilt for what?’ Morton said, ready to jump in and defend him against any self-imposed culpability.

‘He and your mum moved into their own home when you were born, but he went back to visit his own father, Alfred, from time to time—because you remember he was a widower. Once when he was round there—I don’t know how—but he found a letter from Jack to Margaret and it terrified him.’

‘What do you mean?’ Morton asked.

‘He thought that if Jack found out that he had a son, then he and your mother would lose you.’

‘God, really?’ Morton muttered.

‘So, he showed the letter to his father, who I gather was quite a strict, harsh man and together they agreed to intercept any further letters from America. I really think they thought that it was in everyone’s best interests…’

‘Wow…’ Morton said, trying to process the range of emotions that rose and fell on hearing this new information. On one level, he could understand how the possibility of further letters might have caused massive disruption to the family, but on another, the interference and invasiveness into Jack and Margaret’s privacy shocked him.

‘They wanted you so desperately,’ Madge added, ‘and couldn’t bear the idea of anyone taking you away. You’re a father now. Can you imagine someone walking in and taking Grace from you?’

He shook his head, all the while not appreciating the clumsy comparison that she was trying to make.

‘He was very proud of you, you know,’ she said, the second person to tell him as much in as many days.

‘He didn’t show it,’ Morton said glibly.

Madge shrugged. ‘He wasn’t that kind of a man, Morton—as you know.’

A small silence was invaded by a sudden procession of people, led by Juliette. ‘Come on, tuck in; it’s all got to go!’

Loud and diverse conversations came with the swelling number, who bustled around the table, loading up plates, with comments, questions and compliments about the spread. Shifting bodies obscured his view of Madge and he returned to making her a cup of tea.

‘Shall I get my own water, then?’ Juliette asked, playfully leaning up against him.

‘Sorry. I was just chatting to Madge. I’ll tell you all about it later.’

‘Sounds intriguing.’

‘Hmm,’ Morton murmured. ‘Revealing, would be the word.’

‘Isn’t it funny, seeing who’s talking to who?’ Juliette said, observing people as they filled their plates with food, then stood back to continue their conversations.

‘You’ve noticed it, too…’ He thought that he heard his name rise from one lively discussion between Margot and Jack on the far side of the kitchen. Margot said, ‘…and she actually hit the Prime Minister!’ Morton grinned. She was telling him about the research that Morton had conducted into her great-grandmother, Grace Emmerson, a formidable suffragette, after whom he and Juliette had named their daughter.

‘Everyone’s getting on well,’ Juliette commented. ‘Despite having empty glasses.’

Morton took the hint and went around the group topping up their champagne.

The afternoon progressed with the coming and going of other friends and neighbours. Morton tried to move around the group, speaking to each person on at least one occasion, although he was certain that some people had come and gone—including the new couple from across the street—without his having uttered a single word to them.

When the buffet had stopped being eaten, Juliette produced yet another birthday cake and they sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Grace, before they all squeezed into the lounge and watched her opening her birthday presents.

Morton took several photographs of the occasion, very keen to immortalise the day forever. He then handed the camera to Lucy and asked her to photograph the family group. Switching to playback, he zoomed in to the image. In the centre were he, Juliette and Grace, a scene of relative normality. Beside Juliette was her mother, Margot. The further he pulled out of the picture, the more bonkers it became: his American biological father with his wife; his biological mother (who was also his adoptive aunt) with her husband; his half-brother, Jeremy (who was actually biologically his cousin, and yet more familial to him than his actual half-brother, George, who was at the edge of the image, frowning) and his Australian husband; and finally, his deceased adoptive father’s fiancée, Madge.

A perfectly normal family.

Chapter Twenty

15th September 1824, Aldington, Kent

Yet another smuggling run had ended in chaos. Since the arrival of the imperious Ramillies, stationed haughtily off the coast of Kent, many more runs had been postponed, delayed or intercepted. The summer months, when the hours of darkness were already too brief, were proving this year to be especially disastrous. Tonight’s run had cost them at least two men, and under half the barrels had made it back for safe storage in Aldington.

‘Everybody out!’ Sam roared, upon marching into the Walnut Tree Inn.

The landlord, Sam could tell, was about to raise a protest, whether owing to the removal of his few final customers or because he was about to close for the night, Sam didn’t know, or care. The landlord huffed, but said nothing, simply watching as the half-dozen customers sloped past Sam and out into the cool summer evening.

‘Pint,’ Sam ordered. ‘The men be coming, wanting their brenbutter and ale. You best get to work.’

The landlord pushed open the door behind the bar. ‘Rose! Be a-getting here dreckly-minute!’

Mournfully, like a funeral procession, the smugglers trudged into the pub. They were bone-tired, their smocks sodden wet with sweat and, for some unfortunate few, stained with blood. Of their own volition, there was no talking as they filed in. Sighs of relief could be heard as the men found a place to sit down.

‘Your allowances be coming,’ Sam said not sufficiently loudly for any but those still traipsing through the door to hear. He watched as the landlord and his daughter